But There Is A Hyphen In All-american Boy

RALPH DE LA CRUZ COMMENTARY

Today, my niece, the first from the De La Cruz clan born in the United States, is scheduled to give birth to a little boy. That birthing forecast is brought to us by the letter C -- Caesarian section.

When the baby is born -- God willing and if the creek don't rise, as a wise old shoeshine used to tell me -- it will be the first all-American kid in our family.

The first whose parents were both born in the United States. Texas.

No Cuban-American, this baby. Just American.

To be an immigrant is to be tethered, in so many ways, to the place you left behind. Each subsequent generation weakening the threads.

My grandparents spoke about the day they'd return to Cuba. My parents speak about the possibility of returning.

My children say they may visit someday.

For immigrants, the language, food and traditions are so strong, they bind even their offspring, the first-generation Americans.

Officially, my first-gen kids may not be hyphens. But they're a key part of the chain that ties us to the motherland. I'm the last link to the island, they're the first link to the U.S.

At our house, the weekly dinner menu includes a Cuban night. For the second-geners, I bet there won't be too many Cuban nights.

The beginning of a second American generation is also an announcement that we're here to stay. Permanent members of this society.

People who don't approve of hyphenating "American" have always asked exasperatedly, "When do you finally stop?"

Well, I can now answer that question conclusively and with first-hand knowledge.

You stop after 44 years.

After going hungry and then growing fat. After learning the unwritten rules of a new culture and the nuances of a new language. After feeling different when you so want to be the same.

After three generations of heartbreak and love. And all the other incongruities it takes to put down roots.

Perhaps it's fitting then that this birth has a certain irony. Although the paradox is born, not so much of any immigrant experience, but rather, the personal differences between me -- the last-born in Cuba -- and my niece, Laurie, the first-born in the United States.

There are times when Laurie, born when I was only a sophomore in high school, seems more like a younger sister than a niece. Particularly after her divorced mother went to medical school, leaving toddler Laurie to live with my parents.

By then, my parents had made something of themselves here. They could give her every luxury known to Macy's and JC Penney. Laurie was the very embodiment of their American dream.

Although it wasn't my version of the dream. She was happy never to have had a minimum-wage job. I was embarrassed she hadn't.

It's the difference between someone trying to get there, and someone who's already there.

And it's always been a source of tension for us.

So when Laurie announced she was pregnant and due to have the baby in early April, I joked: He'll probably be born on my birthday.

And sure enough, the doctor set a firm date to do the C-section: March 29.

My birthday.

But later in the afternoon, his office called back and moved the birth to March 30.

"For about an hour, he was going to be born on your birthday," she teased me last week.

It was tempting to come back with a crack about how her son could forever be known as Little Ralphie.

But I couldn't. I know exactly what to call the newest member of our family.

An American.

Ralph De La Cruz can be reached at rdelacruz@sun-sentinel.com or 954-356-4727.